


Always We

by Jalules



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Consent Issues, Control Issues, Friendship, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Implied interest from the nogitsune, Mental Health Issues, Nogitsune Stiles, Past Violence, Possession, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Scott is a Good Friend, nervous tics, non-platonic relationships all around if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:10:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1240888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jalules/pseuds/Jalules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has mixed feelings on the subject of being trapped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always We

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing for the fandom. Originally posted on tumblr. I find it really funny and charming that 'Scott is a good friend' is already a tag you can use, although I'm not sure of the context.

.

.

.

Stiles has mixed feelings on the subject of being trapped. On the one hand he’s relieved that the fox demon currently piloting his body can’t escape into the night and reduce his hometown to a crumbling backdrop for death and despair. On the other hand, the chosen jail cell is his bedroom, which means this _thing_ can touch all of his stuff, and his self-elected guard is Scott, who he wishes would stop putting himself in the line of fire every single chance he gets.

He let the Nogitsune hurt his best friend once already, and he doesn’t think he can stomach it happening a second time.

There’s a thick line of mountain ash between them, about a hundred mystic wards and warnings and barriers set up on either side in case the Nogitsune figures out a way through, probably in case _Stiles_ figures out a way through too. They know he’s too damn clever for his own good, and they don’t trust him. Which is good. He doesn’t trust himself either. He almost wishes he were properly restrained instead of just under house arrest.

Scott is on the other side of the room, near the door, trying to talk to him. Or talk to the Nogitsune. It’s a little of both, actually, which is difficult to follow. He slides between vaguely threatening and outright pleading with every other word, keeps addressing Stiles, then the demon, often by the same name. He seems flustered, afraid, though Stiles gets the feeling Scott’s afraid for him more than he is for himself, and not just because there’s a solid wall of mysticism keeping them safely apart.

He looks like he sort of wishes that wall wasn’t there, that he could get close enough to offer a comforting pat on the shoulder, a too-tight hug, but the instant Stiles begins to think on that possibility, the Nogitsune directs its attention away, pulling Stiles’ window to his best friend away as well. He finds himself staring at his hands, disturbingly still in his lap.

It doesn’t move like him. It doesn’t move much at all, only when necessary. The Nogitsune is smooth and graceful, intentional in every motion, and it’s eating Stiles up to be so stationary.

He’s used to frantic gestures and rapid speech, his brain firing notions faster than he can keep up. He’s a perpetual motion machine with eyes that are too easy to read if you catch them at rest, and here this demon is, penning him in, trapping him two-fold, using his nervous eyes to stare ice and daggers.

It won’t even let him look up, look at Scott, as he speaks.

“We’ll find a way,” He’s saying, repeating the phrase for the umpteenth time, as if doing so will make it true, “We’re going to fix this.”

The Nogitsune tips Stiles’ head, lazy, right to left. It smiles with his mouth and drudges up memories from _his_ brain; Scott gasping, Scott crying out, Scott bleeding. It salivates and Stiles’ wants to shudder, tries to, desperately, but his muscles stay stubbornly still, his skin free of horrified goosebumps.

“It’s always _we_ with you,” The Nogitsune says, sounding amused. It’s mocking him, hating him for his seemingly unending well of love and trust.

Stiles wants to wring its neck.

How dare it think so little of Scott? It’s spitting on every value that’s kept him alive, catapulted him to a position of leadership.

 _It’s what makes him a good friend_ , Stiles thinks.

The Nogitsune hears his complaint, laughs him down and into shame. _Poor, poor Stiles,_ it calls him, and he can’t help but think it too. Their voices are the same now, practically. _You’ve spent so much time with a fool that you think you’re one as well._

Stiles insists that Scott is no fool, tries to tell the demon just where it can shove its negative fucking opinions of his friends, but it chooses to ignore him, turn its attention back to Scott.

He’s still puzzling out the demon’s earlier statement, looking vaguely offended. He frowns in confusion and fires back, a bit childishly, “That’s something, coming from you.”

The Nogitsune smiles wider, shows Stiles’ teeth, “We are a different kind of creature,” It looks directly at Scott for just a moment, and Stiles clings to that, pushes for another few seconds, is denied.

He takes in as much information as he can in the instant he’s allowed, the stubborn set of Scott’s jaw, the hurt look in his eyes. He doesn’t look good, sleep-deprived and sick with worry, but then, at least he isn’t actually wounded. He looks as ready to take on the world as he ever is, and that’s a comfort. Stiles may not have much faith in Team Stilinski at this point, but Team Stilinski-McCall? That one is always a winner.

“He’s not like you,” Scott says, like it has to be put out in the open, made clear. It’s good to hear, actually, a friendly reminder, a marker of where things stand. Scott sees them as two distinct entities; his friend Stiles, and the Nogitsune. It warms Stiles’ heart to see Scott rooting for him, still, and he tries to do the same, thinks, _you tell ‘em, buddy._

He sings the guy’s praises, unheard, as the Nogitsune speaks over him, in his head and in his bedroom, “We are already one, and we like it that way. There’s no point in trying to separate us.” It sits proud, smug, on the edge of his bed, grinning an expression that doesn’t belong on his face, a false apology, “Sorry _buddy_.”

It copies his phrasing, shifts the tone just enough to make Stiles flush hot in a way that never reaches his skin. The Nogitsune makes it sound like…like he wants to eat Scott, or just lick him, maybe. He doesn’t even know what the demon means by it, and the fact that it turns that tone on him just as often as it coos for him to calm down, to keep quiet, to accept his new place, makes him feel stranger, sicker than before.

Across the room, Scott opens and shuts his mouth, searching for something to say in retaliation and coming up short. There’s a spark in him that’s flickering, fading out in uncertainty, and it pains Stiles to the core to watch it happen. The Nogitsune stares Scott down, a wild animal waiting for its prey to slow and stop, prepared to pounce.

 _No_ , Stiles says, forceful, though he knows there’s no way the demon can actually breach the barrier between them. He’s sure of that. Pretty sure. Half-sure. Not sure at all, actually, and the worry that his deadly hands may circle Scott’s throat without his consent makes his held-in breath a whine, a sob.

 _Oh stop that,_ the Nogitsune chides, like he’s a misbehaving child.

But he won’t stop, can’t. He’s the same twisted up knot of anxiety he’s always been, just with all that energy jammed inside, cramped up and choking him with his inability to shake it off, work it out.

He can’t jitter like he always has, not physically. Every attempted motion bounces back at the demon’s command, creeps back up into his body and vibrates there, an itch he can’t scratch. It reminds him of being in grade school again, before he saw a single doctor, sitting on his hands and swallowing the urge to move, planning out an explanation for his dad for why he got in trouble and one for his mom to say why he’s so panicked over whether he can flex his toes inside his shoes, whether his breathing pattern feels _right_.

It’s too fast now, his breathing. Only in his head though. The Nogitsune keeps his chest rising and falling at an even rate, forces his heart to beat strong and even. He can feel it controlling all the parts of himself he hardly gives a second thought to when he’s the one operating his body, and that’s terrifying. He doesn’t understand how this thing is powerful enough to fit to his body like it’s a tailor made suit and play puppet master with the people around him all at the same time.

When he questions it, it laughs, says these kind of abilities come with age, great age. Of course he wouldn’t understand. He’s still so _young_.

Shame bites at his insides, makes him want to bite down on his own skin, his nails, instead. He has cuticles he could be chewing, but the Nogitsune refuses to raise his hand to his mouth. He won’t give him the satisfaction of a sharp pain, a swell of blood, and it’s driving him up the wall. He needs an _outlet_ , and he keeps trying to explain that, but the damn thing won’t listen. He suspects it’s tuning him out more often than not.

“That’s not true,” Scott is saying, voice softer, lacking its earlier conviction, “We’re going to find a cure.”

“Impossible,” The Nogitsune drawls.

“We’re going to save him,” Scott says, not you, him, and Stiles isn’t sure how to feel about that.

“It’s too late,” The Nogitsune says, faking sadness, delivering a bleak prognosis with Stiles lips and tongue.

 “It’s not,” Scott says, harsh, hurt, “We’ll keep fighting for him, as long as he’s alive-“

“You’re already grieving,” The Nogitsune says sharply. He makes his voice into a hiss, a blade, something foreign and cutting.

And Scott, warrior of hope and light, all around good guy and eternal optimist, looks unsure. Looks shaken. He takes a half-step back, tense like he’s been struck. He winces like the Nogitsune’s words have made an impression, like maybe he doesn’t believe this will work out.

Stiles starts to think the same.

What if there’s nothing he can do? What if this thing has him now, forever? He could be stuck inside his own head till the day he dies, which sounds like a goddamn nightmare, and now that he thinks of it, do Nogitsunes even die anyway? How long could this last? Will he be host to a vengeful demon for eighty years? Longer? He can’t begin to guess with this supernatural shit, and suddenly the possibility of spending an eternity waiting for the fox spirit taking his body for a joyride to get bored of spilling blood seems like a very real, very near, hell.

Stiles takes in a shaky breath, feels his shoulders, too stiff, too too _too_ stiff and he can’t move them, the Nogitsune won’t let him, and this could be _the rest of his life_.

Unless it gets bored fast.

Unless it does whatever it came here to do and then leaves him, used up, guilty of a dozen crimes, with all these souls weighing on him.

Unless it takes off with all its strength and grace and cleverness and he is alone, sick, losing himself all over again to the same beast that took his mother, with desperate eyes, with a failing mind, with a constant tremor-

Scott startles.

The Nogitsune looks to him, quirking Stiles’ eyebrow in a silent question, and receives no answer. Scott is staring straight at him, at them, and the path his eyes take betrays everything and nothing. He’s never had a very good poker face, but the Nogitsune is still confused as it looks down with Stiles’ eyes, glances to the same place that caught Scott’s attention.

His leg. Stiles’ leg is shaking. It’s a nervous jitter, a hyperactive shift of weight against the ball of his foot, anxiety escaping even as the Nogitsune holds his body steady, his smile sly.

That smile drops.

The Nogitsune puts a hand over Stiles’ knee, pressing hard, stopping the slight motion. It looks to Scott, quick, almost angry, before twisting Stiles’ lips back to a soft smile, calm, as though nothing had happened.

“Something wrong?” It asks, pleasant, conversational. _Everything_ , Stiles thinks, but he can see Scott shaking his head, looking relieved.

“You’re still in there,” Scott says, sounds sure, “You’re still in there, Stiles. And we’re gonna get you back.”

The Nogitsune frowns, with Stiles’ mouth, with its own fangs, and Stiles feels the bite of two sets of teeth against his skin.

Scott is smiling, self-assured, when he leaves the room, steps into the hall so he can stay close enough, not too close, while he makes a few phone calls.

There’s a noise in Stiles’ head, an unfamiliar one, something like a growl. The Nogitsune is angry.

 _Stop that_ , it commands, digging Stiles’ blunt nails into his knee, hard enough that he can feel it through his jeans, _we insist._

 _How about no?_ , Stiles thinks, revitalized by spite. He channels every ounce of nervous energy, the stuff that’s been compressing his lungs, blurring his vision since the moment this thing climbed inside his head, and fights to let it out. He pushes each anxious thought through to his too-still fingers, to the tip of his contained tongue, to his legs that crave a gait less smooth, more scrambling. He thinks of every moment he’s been embarrassed by the sweeping flail of his arms, the stutter and stumble of his words as he tries to get too many out at once, and it fuels a fire in him.

 _Stiles_ , the Nogitsune hisses, a warning.

Stiles ignores it. He jitters his leg back to its panicked jolt-quick pattern, even as the Nogitsune commandeers his hands, tries to hold him down, suppress him. It can’t quite stop the muscles from twitching, tensing. Its control isn’t absolute. He can fight this, _he can fight this_.

If Stiles can move his leg he can move the rest of his body, can force his own will back into flesh and bone, can take control of his life again, piece by piece.

Scott believes in him and so he has to believe in himself. That’s all there is to it.

.

.

. 


End file.
